A Different Magic
by Belmione
Summary: "Flying is exhilarating, but for once being back on the ground is even more so because Finé won't stop kissing her and she doesn't ever want her to." My take on/continuation of the infamous midnight flight scene.


_**Writing this because gay witches are my eternal weakness and that broom scene so thoroughly annihilated me I had to rehash it.**_

Izetta has never been one for words. It's not that she doesn't realize their power and their worth. She thinks sometimes that they may be more powerful and more incendiary than any sort of magic she knows how to harness. Words are a foreign magic, too unwieldy and dangerous to risk misusing.

She's always found them beautiful, though. This spoken symphony capable of inciting war. Of ending it, too. Capable of beautiful things like giving hope to a country.

She's always left a lot of the speaking to people who understand that magic better. She stutters through if she has to. By some miracle, her stutters and embarrassment are taken to be endearing instead of inept and she's thankful for whatever that magic is, too.

There are times that she wants so badly to be able to find the words to express things in a way that's true. In a way that can capture the things only she understands.

Like the way magic shines in two young, violet eyes that aren't afraid. How blood blossoms on a small, green dress at the exact same pace that dread takes hold of a heart. What it is like to wake from an icy, captive sleep to a voice warmer and more welcoming than any hearth. The ecstasy of trying to snatch a young girl, now a young woman, from the jaws of a free-fall. The ache of catching her and holding her and realizing she smells the same as she did years ago.

What Izetta would most like to be able to describe with some sense of certainty is the Archduchess. Is it her unfamiliarity with words that makes it so difficult? Or is it that the right word doesn't exist? Maybe she's looking for the words in the wrong places?

She marvels that often the most powerful words are the shortest. The simplest. The ones one hears the most and fundamentally misunderstands every day. Like betrayal. Like war. Like death and life and peace.

Like love.

Maybe she should be looking for some such word to describe the Archduchess, something small and unexpected.

It seems so counterintuitive. There's so much to be expressed that something simple seems preposterous.

How can Izetta express the way her golden hair falls just so, how beautifully precise the braid and bun in the back are? What words are there to tell her how regal and commanding she looks in her coronation gown, hair swept elegantly off her neck, cape draped on one shoulder, looking more like royalty every second that Izetta takes her in. How to express how unworthy she feels of the weight of her, of how she leans into Izetta and trusts her to hold her aloft as they kick off at the ceremony?

More devastating is how Izetta thinks her even more luminous in a cobbled-together disguise, trying and failing to buy sweets anonymously in a humble shop on a summer's afternoon. How stately she is even when she toys with the corner of a page of a book and mouths the words to herself in one of the rare moments she has time to read.

Izetta wishes she might read to her sometime. She thinks the words would sound so different coming from her, so strange and beautiful in her mouth. Maybe watching them form on her petal-pink lips would help her find the words to describe it all.

But then surely none of them would be enough.

Sometimes, though, there are moments where Izetta has to stumble through, has to find words however ill-fitting they may be. There's no time to waste worrying about the right ones. War, she learns, gobbles up so many luxuries. Time is one of the most painful ones.

She has to say something because the Archduchess is insisting that Izetta shouldn't fight, even though she has half of the stone now. She _can fight again_ , doesn't that solve everything? She doesn't care how many years it shaves off her life if it keeps the Archduchess safe and wipes the shadows from under her eyes and chases the nightmares from her sleep.

She's fumbling through the words but they're not the right ones because she keeps waving her off and insisting that Izetta cannot fight.

 _But that's not right. That's not what I want,_ is all she can think. Does she realize? How painful it's all been? What it was like to watch that red stain grow and grow on her dress, watch her throw her body in front of hers? Does she understand how Izetta can never repay that debt but, oh, she can _try_ and now is her chance? Does she know that her misery isn't worth a few years more on the clock? What are they worth anyway if not to keep her whole?

Izetta slaps the Archduchess and calls out her name because she knows she won't find the words in time and it's the only way she can think of to get her to stop and look at her.

She can't open her eyes after she's done it. She shouldn't even bury her head in the Archduchess' shoulder, but she needs the comfort even as she's sure she'll be rebuffed. The Archduchess' safety is worth even being isolated from her, worth that pain worse than anything else she can imagine.

"That's my name, isn't it? Ortfiné Fredericka von Eylstadt," she murmurs and Izetta can do nothing but nod. She's sure she's telling her that as a reminder. A reminder that she shouldn't be called anything less. Nothing less than her full title. Even just "the Archduchess" is more fitting for how Izetta feels about her. If she can't find the words to describe her, the least she can do is use a title fitting of someone so kind. "Finé" is an insult. Too familiar and too short to respect what she's done for her.

Still, Izetta can't help but try to apologize in any way she can. She's not good with words. But gestures are something she understands well. She flies by the Archduchess' room and holds out her hand, offering her company and her magic and her silent apology.

The Archduchess isn't easily fooled. She asks Izetta directly the reason for their midnight flight, but she can't answer her. At least she seems largely content to let the gesture speak its own words.

But she doesn't let it all rest. The Archduchess can stir things up with one simple sentence and she does it now, not at all content to leave the issue completely untouched.

She tells her she'll accept her apology on one condition and Izetta's heart leaps. _Anything._ Anything that will forgive the slight.

"You finally called me by name this afternoon, but then you stopped!"

She knows what she wants to hear from her, but she's still unsure. It seems so crass. But she'll do whatever she wants her to in exchange for her forgiveness.

"Archduchess...Finé."

When the Archduchess threads a hand in her hair and cradles her cheek, Izetta can hardly speak at all, let alone say what she wants her to.

"No need to call me Archduchess."

"Finé," she whispers and there's a tremor in her voice and a thrill on the back of her neck. She can't tell if the stutter is because she's trying to wrap her mouth around a new word or because the way the Archduchess is gently stroking the ends of her hair is one of the most wonderful things she's ever felt.

"Less mumbling," she tells her so that her warm breath caresses her ear and she can nearly feel how soft her mouth is. This time there's something to the way it sits on her tongue.

"Finé."

Funny, how the more she says it, the less it sounds like an overstep and the more it feels like music.

"Yes, that's right," she says and the smile in her voice is its own magic that seeps in and makes everything clearer. She wants Izetta to call her this. She _likes_ it, that much is clear. But why?

Izetta looks at her, drinks in the same eyes she's loved since she was a child. There's something in them she's seen before but she's never been able to place until now. But now she can. This look she has a few words for. Uncertainty. Shyness. Trust. She knows these well.

The truth washes up in her chest, welling up and warm. She's been mistaken the entire time. About the way Finé sees her, the way she wants her to address her, the way she wants her to love her.

She's giving her name to Izetta. Like a gift. Her first name, with no additions, no formalities, no pretense. She's giving her herself as an equal and Izetta feels silly for a moment. Finé has never once made it seem as if she feels Izetta is a subordinate. But it's always been difficult for her to feel otherwise. As a witch, she's always been on the fringes of things and grappling with Finé as royalty hasn't always been easy.

She's giving her this expectant, melting grin with just the right amount of apprehension in her eyes and it's like a window into her, if only for a moment. She's offering her love and her name and she wants her to treat them gently and accept them. And Izetta does.

"Finé."

The way she pulls her closer and giggles when she hears her own name is fuel to a fire that's flaring in her belly and Izetta isn't stuttering or blushing or mumbling any longer. She wonders. Does she ever hear her own name? She's never heard anyone else say it. Is it any wonder she's happy to hear it?

"Finé."

"Yes, that's right," and this time when she says it it's not as encouragement, but as an utterance of relief, of rightness. _Yes, that's right._

Now that she has the freedom to say it, she can't stop herself.

 _Finé._

 _Finé._

 _Finé!_

How lovely it is that the repetition of her name in her mouth becomes less about Finé, and less about Izetta even, and even more about _them._ How much becomes entangled so quickly in the simple repetition of her name. How Finé leans closer and grins wider every time she says it.

She takes her high up the mountains, broom headed to the stars if only they could get there. But the reflection of them in Finé's eyes as she tips her head forward and whispers Izetta's name so gently might be better than the real thing.

Finé kisses her warmly in the middle of a fragrant summer sky with the tone of Izetta's name still on her lips and nothing has ever tasted more beautiful. It weakens her so badly she can't keep the broom aloft after it and they drift lazily down, kissing so sweetly. They don't stop after they touch down, feather-light, on a low-hanging bluff, tucked safely into secrecy and far below the chill of the snow-caps.

Flying is exhilarating, but for once being back on the ground is even more so because Finé won't stop kissing her and she doesn't ever want her to. The grass is so soft she nearly sinks into it the way she's doing with Finé, pressing herself to her as hard as she can, relishing the warmth of her through a thin, satin nightgown.

She loves taking Finé flying. There's always this sense of excitement in her eyes, even now after she's grown a bit used to it. She likes showing Finé what the mountains look like peeking through the clouds. What it is to see nothing but powder-blue skies or an infinity of stars. These are Izetta's gifts to Finé. She can't give her anything material she doesn't already have. But no one else can give her the sunset on top of the clouds or the chill and the snow on top of a mountain while it's summer in the valley.

When she takes her hand and gently pulls her to sit, and then to lie down with her on the grass that smells like rain and tickles her, she thinks that's what Finé is doing now. Giving her a gift of sorts. She lies there, hand outstretched, but she doesn't tug at her. It's an invitation, not a command.

She smiles softly and holds her hand there, patient and soft. Izetta doesn't have to think about it. She takes her hand and collapses back on the plush green, pulling Finé on top of her in a fluid movement and she starts, surprised for a moment. They giggle like they did when they were children and Izetta leans up to kiss her again, catching the end of a little bell-like laugh that reverberates in her mouth.

Things like these are Finé's gifts to her. The velvet softness of her lips as she kisses her. The pleasant surprise of her tongue brushing her bottom lip, and then touching hers. The swell in her chest and the jolt that runs through her when she brushes a thumb tentatively against her breast. How she startles and pulls back because the gasp Izetta gives her is so forceful she's worried she's misstepped. The gentle ways that Finé asks her _Is this okay?_ with bright eyes and knitted eyebrows. How Izetta hopes the way she answers a breathy _yes_ can tell her she'd stay here for the rest of her life if she could. Finé's soft hands tentatively brushing the hem of her night gown up her thighs, eyes hopeful and beautiful and questioning as she pauses every few inches to be given permission to continue. How her hand dances over the skin of her thighs and hip, but no further.

Finé bites her lip and Izetta realizes with a bit of surprise that she's nervous. She never looks nervous. As a head of state, she knows how to stay poised even when she doesn't know what to do. Finé is _letting_ her see it. Even her vulnerability is a gift itself just like the small, quiet intake of breath and raised eyebrow she gives her when Izetta takes her hand and slips it under her gown.

And oh. _Oh._ Izetta didn't know that anything could feel quite like this. That first touch courses through her so strongly she yelps and Finé jumps back.

"I'm sorry!" Finé stammers and Izetta just giggles and she can feel that her face is burning. She hooks her hand behind her neck and kisses her again and Finé's shoulders relax and she laughs too.

"No, it was good, _I'm_ s-sorry, I just c-couldn't stop it," she stammers, embarrassed, and Finé shakes her head.

"No need to worry about that."

She shyly slips her hand back under her gown and it's just as strong this time, this tingling wave that makes her back arch and steals her breath. She has to clutch the back of Finé's gown to steady herself, taking fistfuls of the fabric, and she thinks she knows how Finé feels holding on to her on her broom. It's so difficult to keep grounded. But the way her hair smells, the way she can kiss her where her neck meets her shoulder and feel the warmth of her skin on her lips, the quiet breath as she moves are enough. And her name. Izetta can't stop repeating her name. She doesn't even mean to say it anymore, it's more like she can't help it and there's nothing else to say anyway, no other word that could ever express the perfection of the moment and she can't keep it in, not when Finé grins so widely when she hears it.

So she says it as loudly as she pleases, out here where no one can hear it, and that makes it all the better. It's more magic than any magic words she knows because only she is allowed to use this word. This is the perfect word, the one that describes her the best in part because it's her word and no one else's. No one else knows why it's beautiful. No one else knows that the sound of it makes her think of fresh spring when she was a little girl, running through fields clutching Finé's hand. No one else knows that it reminds her of how it felt to see her again after so many years. No one else knows that this name is sneaking off to town when they shouldn't, carrying your love for miles and miles through war-torn land, dancing out in the gardens of Landsbruck at midnight, trusting her with your life. No one else can say that name and be as terrified and as desperately elated as she can.

This is her word to use to describe all the things this young woman means to her, poised above her, a little flushed with her lips just slightly parted, breath hitching as she moves against her. No one else is allowed to say it to her. But Izetta can.

And she does. She wonders that she doesn't grow tired of repeating it and that it rather resembles a lilting song after a while. It says everything she needs it to say. _Thank you, I missed you, I love you, You're everything._

She doesn't quiet herself in the least, but says her name loud and long enough she hopes it rings in Finé's ears the same way it's echoing off the mountain range. When the caress of her hand and the velvet bed of grass under her back and the way Finé watches her, intent and vulnerable, is too beautiful for her to bear any longer, she desperately cries that blessed name with every memory she has of her dancing across her eyelids, and hopes the shout is strong enough that they can hear it echo back at the palace, across the country, and up to the very heavens.

" _Oh! Finé!"_

She wonders if maybe Finé isn't magic herself a little. Because it is so like flying as she closes her eyes and feels weightless even lying in the grass as she is now. Everything behind her eyelids are stars and the only solid thing she knows are Finé's arms encircling her as she moves to lie beside her. It's still all stars when she opens her eyes, the bright purple of Finé's eyes just like the sky. She wants her to know, wants her to understand what she means to her.

But then Finé traces the curve of her cheek with light fingers and kisses her and Izetta stops trying to find the words. She learns that sometimes no words are magic enough.

 ** _Hope you all enjoyed! I'd love it if you'd leave a review to tell me your thoughts and such. Thanks for reading!_**

 ** _~Belmione_**


End file.
